Unforgettable Heroes Boxed Set

by James, Maddie

  He stopped his truck and began to unload the wood he’d picked up at the airport half an hour earlier. Most of his construction materials came in on one of his boats, but sometimes, like today, a cargo plane delivered supplies.

  “Help you with those,” a rusty voice behind him offered. “A good lookin’ young man like you ought to be out havin’ fun on a Saturday night.”

  Rick Churchill stepped out of the shadows.

  “Figured you’d gone home already,” Chris said.

  “’Bout to, just wanted to get that window in on the north side.”

  “New front window’s not in yet,” Chris said as he and Rick silently worked together to unload a pile of construction materials from the back of his truck. The scrape of plywood coming off the truck and the slight crunch of their shoes on the broken shells lining the driveway were the only sounds punctuating the silence for a few minutes.

  “Got quite a load of stuff here,” Rick finally commented. “Must be costin’ you a pretty penny to fix up these houses.”

  Chris nodded, stepping into the bed of the truck to get a few boxes of nails that had slid to the front.

  “Sometimes I’m not sure how you manage to come up with the money,” Rick continued. His tone was friendly, but serious. “Folks are tellin’ me you’re not lettin’em pay.”

  Chris set the box of nails with the stacked lumber and pulled a tarp over it. He secured the tarp with a couple of large rocks and then straightened up.

  “It’ll all work out,” he said.

  “I’ve known you long enough not to doubt that,” Rick replied. “Just wanted you to know I’d help anytime if I could.”

  “You already do more than I’m paying you for,” Chris said. He leaned against the door of his truck and watched the last streaks of the sunset. “It’ll work out,” he repeated. And he was sure it would. If he could just buy a little time.

  Chapter Two

  Whitney wandered downstairs in her flimsy nightgown. Last night, the empty house was almost eerie, but she was tired enough to fall into a deep sleep. Only one dream invaded her rest. It involved her rowing a very large red suitcase away from a sinking ship and then being rescued by a dashing sea captain with blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a scar over his left eye. Freud would love that.

  “I’m starving,” she muttered to herself as she dug through kitchen cabinets that were expensive but empty. “Damn.”

  A quick run into town looked like a necessity. She needed coffee and doughnuts to get her vacation started off right. Whitney ran back upstairs to her guest suite, a room she had stayed in many times, and turned on the shower in the bathroom. She put minimal effort into her hair, knowing from experience that the humid air made it uncontrollably curly anyway. She threw on a T-shirt, faded shorts and sandals, and checked herself out in the full-length mirror. A tan was all she needed.

  She headed out the kitchen door and made it almost to the driver’s seat of the Jeep when she stopped dead in her tracks. How on earth did she miss that last night? A large palm tree lay against the back wall of the house. Practically hung over the kitchen door she entered in the dark last night. Now that it was daylight, what else was she going to find?

  Whitney put the keys and her purse on the hood of the Jeep and took a deep breath. She stepped onto the curving sidewalk leading around the side of the house. It would take her beachside to the impressive front façade, the terrace, and the manicured gardens wandering down to the ocean. A gazebo and pavilion had been built when she and Taylor graduated from college and she could still taste the champagne that flowed at the party in their honor. As soon as she rounded the corner of the house, she would see the familiar pavilion and it would be all right.

  Whitney gasped. The sun was out, the birds were singing, and the blue water at the edge of the long lawn sparkled with the promise of a new day.

  Aside from that, total wreckage.

  There were several palm trees down on the lawn, the gazebo leaned to the side like some giant had reclined on it and pushed it halfway over. The beautiful pavilion with its open trellis and trained vines was where the bride and groom would walk down a flower-strewn aisle in less than two weeks. But boards were splintered, dangling, or downright missing. It looked dangerous to even walk under.

  She had thirteen days until Christmas Eve. A tremor raced over her skin as she realized how she would be spending that time. It was obvious that no construction company, insurance payment or not, had touched this place since Hurricane Destiny swept through almost three months before. Whitney balled up her fists, her heart pounding in her chest.

  There was no way she was going to suffer in silence. She would find the owner of that construction company and there would be hell to pay. She spun around and headed back into the kitchen. Last night, she couldn’t face the pile of mail dumped through the slot in the kitchen door. As far as she knew, the local property management company usually forwarded mail directly to Taylor’s parents. At least that’s what was supposed to happen.

  Dread sniped at her stomach as she surveyed the letters and junk piled under the mail slot. Something wasn’t right. She knelt, sorting envelopes into toss and keep stacks. There were several from Tropical Property Managers, one from an insurance company, a few early Christmas cards, and some advertising flyers.

  But none of it should be there. What happened to TPM? Why wasn’t all this forwarded to the Easts or at least kept downtown at the property office? She stacked the keep pile on the kitchen table and sat, the chair’s hollow creak echoing in the empty kitchen.

  Insurance envelope first. Maybe it would explain everything. Nothing would erase the mess on the lawn, but it might tell her where her first phone call would go. She scanned the statement, its staggering amounts for damage repair arresting her attention as she looked for a clue.

  Blue Isle Construction, address right there on the island, had received a substantial down payment for repairs two months ago.

  And they hadn’t done a damn thing.

  Blue Isle Construction. Supposedly specializing in quality building and repairs. Right. That’s why her best friend’s home and wedding venue still looked like it had been hit by a hurricane.

  It was seven a.m. on a Sunday morning, but gale force winds wouldn’t keep her from calling and unloading at least a piece of her mind. First up, the East family. They had a right to know, but she hoped some miracle would help them keep the news from Taylor. It would take a miracle to pull off her best friend’s wedding, but damned if she’d let anyone take that away from her.

  A new hurricane named Whitney had just swept into town, and those thieves at Blue Isle Construction weren’t even going to get a storm warning.

  ****

  Whitney drove to town for breakfast even though her first look at the condition of East Pointe nearly killed her appetite. One angry phone call to Blue Isle Construction helped her work up a hunger again like a ten-mile run. She decided she needed to keep up her strength for the long haul ahead. If that estate was going to be bellissimo for the wedding, she needed to stay in fighting shape.

  There weren’t many places open early on a Sunday morning. The tourists were probably eating at their hotels, the locals at home or at church. She found a swinging sign painted with Bistro Sol and figured anything promising sun was a good start to the day.

  “What’ll you have?” The woman behind the counter was dark haired, with beautiful olive skin and a welcoming smile. Probably in her mid-twenties like Whitney.

  “Coffee for sure,” Whitney said, scanning the overhead menu of pastries and breakfast sandwiches. She started to order efficiently and step to the side, just like at home, but she was the only one in the small café. No rush necessary. Island time for the next two weeks.

  Still perusing the menu, she heard the little bell tinkle on the door and sensed someone standing in line behind her.

  “Maybe I’ll just get the coffee for now and decide in a minute what I’ll have,” she said quickly.

&nb
sp; “Please don’t hurry on my account,” a familiar voice said behind her.

  She turned and looked squarely at the collar of a blue T-shirt. Didn’t even need to raise her eyes to his face to know it was the man from the airport. She knew from the tremor racing over her flesh. He grinned at her like someone had just given him the combination to the store safe.

  “I am hungry, don’t get me wrong. And the food is awesome, but I don’t want to rush you,” he said.

  Whitney turned fully around so her back was against the counter and there were only a few inches between her and Chris. He could easily read the menu over her head, but that wasn’t what he was looking at. The scent and the sight of him filled her senses. All of them. She vividly recalled the blue eyes spicing her dreams last night.

  “Chris,” she said.

  “Whitney,” he said with a grin and nodded at her. “Patron saint of revolving doors and red suitcases.”

  She laughed. “I should buy you breakfast to thank you for your heroism yesterday.”

  “I do that all the time,” he said with a shrug of one massive shoulder.

  “I don’t doubt it,” she answered playfully, “but how about breakfast anyway?”

  His grin disappeared and he looked rueful. “I’d love to, but I’m getting mine to go. I have to work today.”

  “You work too much, Chris,” said the pretty girl behind the counter.

  Whitney turned back to the girl and the menu, suddenly feeling very much like an outsider on the island.

  “Why don’t you go ahead of me,” she said to Chris, “I’ve got all day.”

  Whitney picked up her cup and wandered over to the small table by the window. Tried to focus on a copy of the local newspaper while taking a cautious sip of hot coffee. It wouldn’t have mattered if the headlines declared world peace and an end to global warming. She couldn’t think about anything but the handsome man ordering several breakfast sandwiches and at least one pastry.

  What was he doing? He stepped behind the counter and climbed up a stepladder. Tired of looking out of the corner of her eye, Whitney turned to watch him. He changed a light bulb while the girl behind the counter smiled up at him adoringly. Chris Maxwell was an overgrown boy scout. And man, did his backside look nice on that ladder.

  All too quickly, Chris climbed down, picked up his bag of food and a large to-go cup of coffee and started for the door. He had to walk right by Whitney’s seat by the front window. She looked up, heart speeding, when he stopped at her table. Smiling at her, his large hands clutching his food and coffee.

  The sun coming in the front window caught the blond curls brushing the top of his ears and almost reaching the collar of his T-shirt. Yesterday, she’d thought he was a guardian angel when he rescued her from the door. Today, he did look a bit like an angel, but with a devilish grin. A nice contrast. She should say something.

  “Working on a Sunday?” she asked. “I thought tropical islands had a relaxed pace.”

  He smiled. “Maybe I’ll work…slowly.”

  And then he was gone. She watched him walk up the street, imagining he had a car parked somewhere beyond her view. The girl who worked behind the counter came over and watched him walk up the street, too. She sighed.

  “He would make a fantastic Christmas present,” she said.

  Whitney nodded in agreement as he disappeared from view.

  ****

  It would have been nice to avoid her problems and hang out with a coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other as she watched the sunshine downtown glance off the bronzed skin of hot island men. That would, in fact, have been very nice. But Whitney didn’t have a whole lot of choices. Driving back to East Pointe to face the unmitigated hurricane damage was what she had to do. Her loyalty to Taylor and high hopes for the wedding came before tropical hotties and Virgin Island daydreams.

  But first, there was something downtown she needed to see. With an address and cell phone GPS, she only turned down two streets before she found it. Tropical Property Managers. The company trusted by people who needed someone to oversee their gorgeous estates while they were away. The storefront in the commercial district had a large colorful sign over dusty windows advertising a business that was closed. Locked up for good. Out of business. Out of luck.

  No phone number, no forwarding address. Nothing she could do but drive back to East Pointe and start picking up the pieces. She drove to her temporary home, numbing shock settling over her as she tried to imagine what to tell Taylor’s parents. They were busy with their new grandchild, but if they had any idea what awaited them here, she thought, they would have come immediately themselves. When Whitney had called them earlier to tell them nothing was repaired, their first reaction was shock. Followed closely by pissed off. Their lawyer was already investigating the seemingly absent property management company—even on a Sunday. Now that Whitney had another piece of the puzzle, it wouldn’t be long before answers were on the table, but the wedding couldn’t wait.

  And Taylor had thought she was maneuvering Whitney into a nice two weeks in the sun under the guise of double-checking the wedding plans.

  “Ha,” Whitney muttered to herself as she looked at the wreckage that was once an immaculate lawn. “So much for that idea.”

  Any ideas about a sunny, relaxing vacation had just been flushed down a tropical toilet. She would be all over those contractors as soon as they showed up tomorrow morning. And they better show up after the message she left them after talking to Taylor’s parents. Martin and Kitty East had asked her to do whatever it took to make things right for Taylor’s wedding. They’d try working with their lawyer, but Whitney was their person on the front lines and they were counting on her. She had called Blue Isle—trying to sound like Kitty East—threatening to bring the whole FBI, CIA, Good Housekeeping or whoever she could find down on their heads. After a team of lawyers removed those heads and bowled with them.

  After that message, somebody from Blue Isle would show up tomorrow morning. Until then, her wheels would be spinning as she made a detailed list of exactly what she wanted repaired and in what order.

  Whitney flopped down on a lounge chair on the small private beach and propped herself up on her elbows. She looked out at the clear blue water and envisioned sparkling blue eyes. Chris. She wished she knew more than just his first name.

  She thought of the way he hoisted her suitcase up on his shoulder like it was a ragdoll. What if she had invited him into her Jeep and asked for a personal tour of the island? She’d probably be having more fun right now than she was.

  She had to admit, there was nothing she could do until tomorrow morning. Except one thing. She could unpack. The overstuffed red suitcase had plenty to offer in island wear. She could put on one of the cute sundresses she bought for this trip and head downtown. She had to eat and there was no food in the house. Enjoying a night on the town was better than sitting here angrily writing the same list over and over.

  And tonight might be her only night of fun, because after her meeting tomorrow morning, she would have contractors here night and day. Everything needed to be just right for her best friend’s wedding.

  ****

  Whitney strolled the walkway along the waterfront in the fading light of the day. When she reached the harbor wall, she leaned against the railing, watching the water. Her bottle-green halter-style dress flicked against her knees in the light breeze off the bay, and the air caressed her bare arms. No wonder Taylor wanted to get married on this island. What could be more romantic?

  Holiday music wafted from one of the restaurants lining the harbor front. Christmas was less than two weeks away, and she would spend it with the East family—her only family now.

  Months ago, she thought this Christmas would be so different. Thought there might be a future with Logan. Boy, were things different. Her relationship with Logan fizzled, which was no great loss for a lot of reasons. Their one-year relationship didn’t even end with fireworks or fighting. It just wandered off. S
pectacular fireworks and something to fight about would almost have been better. Whitney wanted more fire, more…everything in a man.

  Leaning on the railing, she wished she could reach the water to trail her hand through the fading colors reflecting on the surface. She sighed, glancing at a few boats taking down their sails. A huge cruise ship anchored nearby, its lights twinkling in the early evening light. Red and green Christmas lights joined the rows of white lights strung from the upper decks. The night air smelled like open water and boats. Musky, inviting. It was romantic, beautiful. And lonely.

  She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her. Too absorbed in watching the harbor and letting the slight tropical breeze wipe away the ripples of loneliness centered around her heart.

  “If I were your fiancé,” said a deep voice right behind her, “I would be enjoying this beautiful view with you.”

  Whitney froze. She knew that voice. It sent tremors through her yesterday and this morning, and it had the same effect now.

  Chapter Three

  Chris stopped cold, fighting desire to touch her. He’d thought of her nonstop after the airport meeting last night. Meeting her accidentally at Bistro Sol this morning only fueled his furnace. Long brown hair fell over her bare shoulders. The green dress she wore matched the eyes he remembered vividly. He wanted to do more than just look.

  But she was here to marry someone else. Was practically another man’s wife. His glance strayed to her left hand resting on the railing.

  Loud thudding sounded in his ears.

  Her left hand, long fingers curved over the rail. No diamond engagement ring?

  “Want company?” he asked, hardly recognizing his own voice

  She turned to face him, her eyes only inches from his. Her delicate cheekbones rose in a smile that curved her full lips. One slim brow lifted as if suggesting an unasked question. Standing in the sunset’s last hurrah, he wanted to be the answer to her question.